


Thirty Snapshots - Less Talk, More Action

by ennyousai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:33:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ennyousai/pseuds/ennyousai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty snapshots of the life of Sam and Dean.  They are not necessarily connected, or set in the same 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Snapshots - Less Talk, More Action

“Dean,” says Sam, his voice thin and frail and so soft Dean can barely hear it. “Dean, you have to let me go.”

Dean ignores him. He cracks two eggs into the old plastic mixing bowl, adds salt and pepper, and starts beating them. Yesterday was pancakes; today is eggs and toast. Maybe tomorrow he’ll make hash browns.

“Dean,” says Sam again, desperate. “Dean, please. You can’t hold it back forever, and I’m so tired.”

Dean pulls open the fridge and looks at what they have on hand. “You want me to cut up a tomato, Sammy?” he asks. “I’ll fry it up with your eggs.”

Sam is silent. Dean pulls a tomato out of the crisper.

It looks like it’s going to a beautiful day.

* * *

They moved into the house after Sam’s second seizure. It was much worse than that first one in Rhode Island, leaving Sam shaky and confused for days afterward, and Dean decided he didn’t want to take any more chances.

Dean used his share of the dragon’s hoard to buy the place. He even had some cash left over - the ramshackle old farmhouse didn’t hold much appeal for rich Midwestern suburbanites, and the owner was just happy to get it off her hands. It turned out that Dean’s time with Lisa had done some good, too; all that construction work he’d done in Cicero meant he knew how to get it fixed up pretty quick. He didn’t bother getting Internet or TV, though. They don’t need any of that, not any more.

It makes a lot of sense, really. Sam’s Wall is porous and impermanent. Any outside stimuli could accelerate the rate of decay; therefore, the only way Dean can fulfill his prime directive of Keeping Sam Safe is to make sure Sam never encounters any triggers.

The walls are painted white and the furnishings are all solid colors (except for reds and oranges and yellows). Nothing exciting or exotic; nothing that might set up off an unseen landmine inside Sam’s head. Dean is also sure to keep the doors locked from the inside at all times, and he doesn’t give Sam a key.

Outside is too dangerous.

* * *

“Dean,” whispers Sam at night when the two of them are curled up close in bed, “Dean, please stop. I want you to stop. I want you to end this, and go find Lisa and Ben. So please. Stop.”

Dean just kisses his brother, presses his lips against Sam’s mouth and cheeks and throat, and doesn’t answer.

* * *

The first time Dean went out to get groceries, Sam tried to escape. He picked the lock and took off, running until he collapsed in exhaustion and there were blisters on his heels. Dean found him four hours later and drove them back home in silence, his eyes narrowed and his lips set in a disapproving line. It wasn’t until later, when Dean was smearing antibiotic ointment on his bloody feet, that the words poured out of Sam’s lips.

“Don’t trap me here, Dean, please,” he said. “I don’t like being in cages.”

“It’s not a cage, Sam,” snapped Dean. “It’s just a way to keep you safe. We can’t risk anything setting you off.”

Sam wanted to scream and cry and argue, but he saw the way his brother’s hands were shaking and didn’t say anything else.

He hasn’t tried to make a run for it since. He doesn’t want to upset Dean. He knows, though, that being trapped in here is causing just as many fault lines in his psyche as being out in the world would. He hates being locked away, has hated it ever since he’d been shoved into Bobby’s panic room to detox from demon blood, and whenever he looks at the blank white walls for too long his breath starts to shorten and black spots dance before his eyes.

It will only be a matter of time before everything falls apart.

* * *

Dean keeps all the knives, scissors, and construction tools hidden, and shaves using a small acrylic mirror that he picked up from a backpacking supply store. He doesn’t let Sam anywhere near a razor, of course, even the safety ones, just sets him down on the toilet seat every other day and carefully takes off every trace of beard.

“I could bite through my tongue, you know,” says Sam one day as he watches Dean wash the mixture of shaving cream and bristle off the blades. “Or stick my head in the oven. Or throw myself down the stairs. Or -”

“Stop, Sammy, stop.” Dean’s hands are threading through Sam’s hair, forcing his head back so their eyes can meet. “Nothing’s gonna hurt you anymore, okay? Not even you.”

From the way Dean’s eyes flicker, Sam’s pretty sure his brother can taste the lie.

* * *

Dean is the one who ventures into the outside world, the one who buys the groceries and pays the bill. Sam is the one who sits at home and stares out the window, the prison of his body drawing closer and closer to the prison of his mind.

This is how they will live until the end finally comes.


End file.
